


The Road To Where You Are

by izazov



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Dates, M/M, Pining, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 07:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13631838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izazov/pseuds/izazov
Summary: Happiness is not something reserved solely for other people. It takes some time for Steve to accept that truth.





	The Road To Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MusicalLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/gifts).



> This is a remix of [Night Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393495) by MusicalLuna. I strongly suggest reading that story before this one. It is a gentle and sweet story that everyone should read, and it will provide the needed context for the ending of this story.

Unlike their explosive first meeting - and quite a few fights that followed after - the moment Steve realizes he is well on the way to falling in love with Tony Stark is calm and peaceful.

Ordinary.

Steve is alone in the kitchen, standing by the fridge and pouring himself a glass of orange juice when Tony walks in. Steve glances up from his juice, his lips tugging up into a soft smile as he watches Tony make a beeline for the coffee machine.

Tony is bleary-eyed, his hair is sticking in all directions, and there is a dark smudge on his right cheek. There is a look of almost hypnotic concentration on his face as he stares at the coffee maker, fingers tapping a discordant rhythm against the counter as he sways a little.

He looks… adorable. Stripped of all masks and roles, and reduced to just a man. Just Tony.

(Steve prefers him this way. It makes the chasm between genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist and a simple guy from Brooklyn seem a little less impossible to bridge.)

Something warm and fond blooms inside Steve’s chest in the wake of that thought. It is tempered by a sort of resigned exasperation as Steve recognizes Tony’s clothes - ratty jeans and a smudged tank top as the clothes Tony wore two days ago when Steve last saw him. 

“Long night?” Steve asks, arching an eyebrow. He takes a sip of his juice, hiding his widening grin behind the rim of the glass.

Tony mutters something unintelligible and waves distractedly, his concentration still entirely focused on the coffee maker. Steve resists the urge to intervene when Tony fumbles with the cupboard door, the porcelain clanking loudly as Tony searches for his coffee mug.

Steve had learned that particular lesson early on. He knows how easily and quickly Tony can go from sleep deprived softness to giving an accurate rendition of a hissing cat.

“You know,” Steve says when Tony finally triumphs over the coffee maker, the expression of near bliss settling over his features as he takes the first sip of coffee. “Even geniuses need more than a few hours of sleep.”

The glare Tony sends Steve’s way over the rim of his coffee mug is half-hearted, almost sweet. It makes Steve want to drag his fingers through Tony’s hair and muss it up further. Makes him wonder how it would be to wake each morning to the sight of Tony lying in the same bed, pliant and relaxed, eyes sleep-soft and unguarded.

That thought is sudden and startling in its intensity, but it is the answering thought what makes Steve’s heart stutter in its rhythm, and his chest twist with a sharp ache.

 _I want that. I want…_ Tony.

***

Steve’s realization doesn’t actually change much in his relationship with Tony.

They still butt heads occasionally and Tony still sometimes fails to grasp that the meaning of teamwork doesn’t translate as reckless endangerment of his own life, but Steve no longer hesitates to call them friends. Not in the privacy of his thoughts or out loud.

But everything is not the same.

Now, when Tony sits next to him during movie nights, Steve spends more time imagining how it would feel if Tony snuggled closer and tucked his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder as Steve wrapped his arm around Tony’s shoulders, than actually watching the movie.

His sketchbook is rapidly filling with drawings of Tony, and only Tony: his eyes, his hands, his mouth. Each sketch is more elaborate, detailed, and even the most oblivious person on the planet would recognize the drawings for what they are: love declarations.

Steve is used to want what he cannot have. Used to breathing around the ache and longing burning inside his throat. He had survived losing his entire world, he will survive this.

It doesn’t mean Steve never allows himself to think what if.

What if Steve asked Tony out? What if Tony said yes?

 _It is inadvisable,_ Steve’s mind insists.

 _Yeah_ , Steve’s heart agrees. And continues longing all the same.

***

Steve tries to keep himself from sneaking glances at Tony and Pepper, dancing a couple of feet away. He is… less than successful.

“You do know that this is a party?” Natasha remarks as she appears seemingly out of nowhere, a flute of champagne in her hand.

“I’ve been informed, yes,” Steve says. “By various people.”

“And have those people mentioned how good you look in a tux?”

Steve swallows a groan when he feels a touch of warmth graze his cheeks. “Tony might have mentioned it.” Reflexively, Steve’s eyes flick toward the familiar dark head. They are still dancing, and Tony is leaning forward, whispering something in Pepper’s ear that makes her lips curve into a fond smile. The twinge of longing in the space behind Steve’s ribcage is both expected and familiar. “Once or twice.” 

Natasha’s mouth curls slightly. “So how come you’re standing here instead of dancing?”

Steve has to make a conscious effort to keep his face blank and keep his gaze from drifting over to Tony. His own words, said a lifetime ago, echo inside his mind, like a really bad joke.

_I’m waiting for the right partner._

Steve lifts his chin fractionally, shrugs. “I agreed to come. I said nothing about dancing.”

Natasha’s smile widens, just a bit. He gives Steve a considering gaze. “He would have said yes if you’d asked him for a dance,” she says after a moment of silence.

Steve’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flicks toward Tony before he has a chance to stop himself. Distantly, Steve is aware he’d just made a mistake, but that knowledge fades into the background as Steve’s heart rate picks up speed, thudding an erratic beat that is half panic and half hope.

Steve keeps his gaze locked on Tony and Pepper swaying slowly to the beat of the music, and for one second he is certain he can taste the longing in the back of his throat.

Sighing, Steve drags his eyes away from Tony’s smiling face. When his gaze meets Natasha’s, he doesn’t feel embarrassed. Not really. Resigned, maybe.

“Am I that obvious?” Steve asks, mouth curving into a fleeting, not-quite-happy smile.

The look Natasha gives him is fond, if faintly amused. “Not really. I’m just good at what I do.”

“So no one else knows?”

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “Are you asking about the team in general or Tony in particular?”

Steve gives her a pointed stare. “Natasha.”

“Don’t worry. No one knows about your crush on Stark,” Natasha says.

Steve frowns, bud decides to ignore Natasha’s chosen term, focusing instead on the important part. “I would like to keep it that way.”

“Is that an order, Captain?” Natasha asks, her eyes gleaming with something Steve would call mischief on anyone else.

Steve keeps his gaze steady, even if he cannot stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upwards. “A favor.”

Natasha studies him silently for one long moment. Steve tries but fails to read her expression.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she says finally. Steve breathes out a soft sigh of relief. It earns him another amused look. “But I think you’re making a wrong call.”

Steve rubs at his forehead, sighs. He resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably under Natasha’s piercing gaze. “Can we drop the subject? Please.”

“You should ask him out. If you are worried about getting between him and Pepper, you know they are only friends now.”

“That is not dropping the subject, Nat,” Steve says in a voice that completely fails at sounding even close to stern. "It is closer to shoving it right into my face."

“I’ve seen you jump off of buildings without a second thought,” Natasha remarks lightly, arching an eyebrow. “Or a warning.”

A muscle ticks in Steve’s jaw and he finds himself straightening fully before he catches himself and forces his shoulders to relax. He takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly.

“That is different,” Steve says. Something warm and bright lights up inside Steve’s chest when he recalls Tony’s numerous rants about gravity and how Steve is not immune to it. Each of those rants inevitably ends the same, with Tony threatening that _next time you decide to swan dive off of a building, I’m not saving your spangly ass, Rogers._ “Besides, Tony always catches me.”

The words are already out of Steve’s mouth when he realizes his mistake.

“Or Thor,” Steve adds quickly, uncomfortably aware of the warmth spreading across his cheeks. When Natasha gives him a pointed look, Steve lifts his chin fractionally, insists: “It isn’t always Tony.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t Tony… what? Three times in the past two years? And only because he couldn’t get to you in time.”

“We are teammates,” Steve points out firmly. “He does the same for Clint.”

“He doesn’t have a panic attack… a very loud and annoyingly shrill panic attack on comms when it’s Clint who needs to be plucked out of thin air.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, but slowly closes it when he recalls their last mission - two months ago? - when an explosion knocked Steve off of a building. He doesn’t quite remember Tony’s words - his ears had been ringing from the explosion, not to mention the adrenaline rush from the battle and the fall - but he does remember the tone: loud, panicked, desperate.

In retrospect, Tony seemed more afraid than Steve had been in that moment. 

Forcefully clamping down on the tiny flicker of hope that blossomed within Steve’s chest, Steve fixes Natasha with a steady gaze. “I’m not interested in dating right now. Even if I were, I wouldn’t consider asking Tony out.” 

And while the former may not be entirely true, the latter is. Just the right balance of truth and lie to make it possible for Steve not to stammer over the words.

“Why not?” Natasha asks. “You’re a practical guy, Steve. There must be at least one good reason why you’ve chosen to pine in silence instead going for what you want.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue, when his gaze slips again, drawn to Tony like a moth to the flame.

Pepper and Tony are still dancing, slow and easy and looking like they have spent at least half their lives dancing together, and Steve cannot help himself: he _wants_. It throbs inside his chest along with his heartbeat, an ache that builds and builds and builds until it feels like his sternum will crack open under the pressure.

Maybe Steve is pining. And maybe he sometimes wishes he had the right to wrap his arm around Tony’s shoulders during movie nights, or thread their fingers together. Or card his fingers through Tony’s mussed hair as he sits at the breakfast table, still more than half asleep, or push him against the wall and…well.

So. Apparently Steve wants many things. That doesn’t mean he isn’t aware he will never get to have them. It won’t be the first time.

Allowing himself one last glance, Steve drags his eyes away from Tony’s face, meeting Natasha’s expectant gaze. 

“You seem overly invested in my love life all of a sudden,” Steve remarks, frowning.

The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches. “I just think you two could be good together.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches faintly. “We have finally become friends. Good friends. I don’t want to risk that over a fleeting infatuation.” 

Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Steve, your fleeting infatuation is nearing its second birthday.”

“That’s not-- We were still yelling at each other two years ago. I haven’t been--” Steve manages to cut himself off before finishing the rest of that sentence. But the words, although unsaid, are now buzzing inside his head, loud and insistent, making his chest clench tightly. Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, Steve finishes lamely, “Infatuated with Tony back then.”

“You were yelling at Tony three days ago.”

“That’s different,” Steve says, and if there is an edge to his voice, it is due to the messy tangle of resignation and helpless frustration still lingering on the edge of his conscious thought; far enough not to be a hindrance but not far enough to be easily ignored. “He disobeyed a direct order and almost got himself-” Steve cuts himself abruptly, aware that his voice has risen in volume. He takes a careful, controlled breath, then lets it out slowly. It comes out as a sigh, half resigned and half exasperated. “He’s never going to stop giving me reasons to yell at him, is he?”

Natasha’s fingers are gentle as they close around Steve’s wrist for a brief moment. “Probably. You’re both incredibly stubborn people with fundamentally different mindsets,” Natasha says. “But he listens to you. He respects you. You are the only person whose orders he obeys willingly.”

“When he doesn’t decide he knows better,” Steve says. “But even if he listens to Captain America in the field, at the end of the day, when the suits come off, he is Tony Stark and I am just a guy from Brooklyn still trying to find my footing in this time.”

“I happen to think Steve Rogers is good for Tony Stark. You two balance each other. On the field or off it.”

Steve lets out a low chuckle. It comes out sounding wistful, the ache from the inside of Steve’s chest bleeding into his voice. Hope, as it turns out, doesn’t need much to keep on surviving despite Steve’s best efforts at tearing it out at the root. A fleeting touch, a smile, and now, Natasha’s encouragement.

“Nat, Tony and I are friends, and that is enough for me. Whatever feelings I have for him, they’ll pass,” Steve says. The word ‘eventually’ weighs heavily on the tip of Steve’s tongue, tasting like ash. Huffing out a sharp breath, Steve shifts on his feet, squaring Natasha with a look that is as much a plea as it is a warning. “I really wish you would stop insisting on this.”

Natasha takes a step forward, brushing her fingers against Steve’s cheek. It is a soft, feather-light touch but Steve recognizes it for what it is: comfort. “There is nothing wrong with fighting for what you want and not just for what you think is right, Steve,” Natasha remarks in a soft voice, pulling her hand away. “Happiness is not a concept reserved for other people.”

“I am happy,” Steve says. The words come out firm and strong because Steve is telling the truth. He is happy. Happier than he would have thought was possible when he’d first opened his eyes in this new time. It doesn’t change the fact that, despite Steve’s will, his eyes flick toward Tony; following an impulse born in the place inside his chest where his heart beat its steady rhythm. Rhythm that falters the moment Tony’s eyes catch Steve’s from across the dance floor, his mouth turning up into a grin.

When Steve finally manages to drag his eyes away, his throat feels uncomfortably tight and the smile curving on his lips brittle and strained.

“I have it under control,” Steve says when he meets Natasha’s pointed gaze.

“You’re brilliant on the field, Steve,” Natasha says, shaking her head slightly. “But you’re exceptionally bad at dealing with your feelings.”

Steve honestly wishes he could argue against that.

***

“I’m troubled,” Tony announces, flopping down onto the couch next to Steve. 

Swallowing a sigh, Steve looks up from the book he is reading. He has to put a conscious effort not to grin like the besotted fool he is at the sight of Tony’s almost petulant expression. A couple of years ago, it would have made him grit his teeth; now it makes his chest fill with something warm and light.

“Is the world ending?” Steve asks, arching an eyebrow. The narrowing of Tony’s eyes and the press of his lips are entirely expected.

“If you were anyone else, I would think you are making fun of my distressed state.”

Steve closes the book slowly and puts it away, aware he wouldn’t be able to concentrate fully even if Tony were to leave. And that is highly unlikely to happen. They are the only ones in the Tower, and Tony seems to be in that particularly challenging combination of bored and restless that had often led to two of them shouting at each other in those first months after Steve had moved in.

“It is a perfectly valid question in our line of work,” Steve counters, giving Tony a sideways glance. He takes in the messy state of Tony’s hair, the loosened tie and the shirtsleeves rolled up to Tony’s elbow and feels a familiar spike of heat curl low in his belly. He ignores it. It is almost a reflex these days. 

“You _are_ making fun of me,” Tony grumbles, but there is telltale twitch in the corner of his mouth. It coaxes an almost identical reaction from Steve’s own lips. “I would have expected it from Barton, but not you, Rogers. You are supposed to be polite.”

“I am polite.”

“The polite thing would have been to ask me what is troubling me,” Tony points out. Steve flicks his gaze down to Tony’s fingers, drumming a fast, discordant rhythm against Tony’s thigh. A sudden, inexplicable urge to reach over and twine his fingers with Tony’s surges inside him, making his throat go dry and his fingers itch with the need to feel the warmth of skin against his own.

Swallowing thickly, Steve folds his hands into his lap as inconspicuously as possible. “I already know what is troubling you.”

Tony tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, now I’m intrigued,” Tony says, grinning. “Come on, Cap, let’s test your newfound clairvoyance.”

Steve snorts. “I don’t need to be clairvoyant,” Steve says. “You’ve been whining about Bruce’s trip--

“I resent that remark. I don’t whine.”

“-for the last two days,” Steve finishes, ignoring Tony’s interruption. He squares Tony with a flat gaze. “Loudly and incessantly.”

Tony blinks, then looks away. Steve keeps his eyes trained on the bow of his head, on the way Tony’s hair curls on the nape of his neck, and wonders - for the umpteenth time - is it as soft as it looks. “Okay, I admit I might have mentioned Bruce’s trip to Portland one or two times. Three times tops.”

“Try thirty.”

Tony’s gaze snaps up, settles on Steve’s face in a half-hearted glare. “I’m sure it’s unconstitutional for Captain America to be mean.”

Steve grins. “I’m not wearing the uniform right now.”

Tony’s mouth opens, then closes. He studies Steve’s face for a moment, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “You got me there.”

Silence that ensues isn’t uncomfortable. But as it stretches from one moment into two into three, Steve catches himself contemplating Natasha’s words. They buzz inside his head, insistent and loud, reminding Steve that there is nothing stopping Steve from opening his mouth and asking Tony out but Steve himself.

And really, what is the worst that could happen?

 _Losing this,_ a tiny voice inside Steve’s mind whispers, _having Tony avoid you or smile that false smile and lie how it doesn’t bother him at all._

Dragging his fingers through his hair, Steve takes a deep breath, silencing the noise inside his head. Then freezes still as his gaze meets Tony’s: careful, considering, edging toward suspicious.

Something not unlike panic surges inside Steve’s chest, and he hears himself blurting out, “Why does Bruce meeting his friend bother you so much?”

There is a momentary pause in which Tony is still staring at Steve strangely, but then he shakes his head, his mouth curving into a wry smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

Steve just stares at Tony until he huffs out an exasperated sound. He shifts in his seat, hand moving restlessly on the couch cushions.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Tony admits.

Steve turns until he is facing Tony fully, arching an eyebrow. “Only a little?”

Tony gives him a dirty look, dragging fingers through his hair, mussing it further. “Wonderful, now you’re judging me.”

Steve sighs. He looks down at his hands - still folded carefully in his lap - then back up at Tony. They have gone a long way from their disastrous first meeting, but every now and again, Steve gets a reminder how different they are. _You balance each other,_ Natasha had said. It… is a comforting thought. But not quite enough to make him risk losing Tony as a friend over a possibility of something more. “I am not judging you, Tony. I just don’t understand why you’re taking this personally.”

Tony frowns. Then, in the next moment, he stands up. Steve looks up, the light amusement he’s been feeling in regards to Tony’s prickly behavior from the last two days turning into something that is not quite confusion and not quite concern but a heavy tangle of both when he notices a look in Tony’s eyes: tired and sad and lonely.

It is gone quickly, covered by impatience and exasperation, but Steve isn’t fooled. He knows that look. Has seen it often enough in a mirror. 

“And how should I take the fact that an alien, pair of spies and the guy who turns into Hulk all have more interesting personal lives than I do?” Steve remains silent, watches as Tony paces and gestures widely, doing his best to ignore the ache inside his throat. “I mean, the only one who is having less fun than me is-” Tony cuts himself off abruptly, freezing mid-stride. He blinks, once, twice, his forehead creasing as realization slowly spreads across his features. “You.”

Steve’s spine goes rigid, a faint sense of alarm going off in the back of his mind. He recovers quickly: frowning and giving Tony an exasperated glare. “Yes, Tony, I am a sad, old man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word fun.”

Steve’s words fail to achieve the desired effect. Tony ignores the bait entirely, and merely tilts his head, studying Steve’s face with a growing intensity. Steve swallows, a twinge of panic surging inside him as he recognizes the expression on Tony’s face. Steve’s seen it often, that look of single-minded focus, but it has never been directed at him. Not like this. Like Steve is a particularly challenging equation, and Tony is determined to solve it.

“That… doesn’t make sense,” Tony muses in a low voice. His gaze slides down Steve’s body, slow and appreciative, but not mocking. Merely thoughtful.

Steve thinks he’d have preferred if Tony were mocking him. Then his reaction wouldn’t have been to sit there: stiff-backed while a flush spread across his cheeks.

Tony doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s predicament, but Steve doesn’t find much comfort in that fact. He’s seen Tony on a mission before. He knows how focused he becomes when faced with something he deems a puzzle worth solving.

And Steve’s romantic entanglements - or lack thereof - is about the last thing Steve wants Tony to set his sights on.

“Tony,” Steve says, infusing his voice with as much warning as he is able while trying not to fidget nervously under Tony’s intense gaze. “We’ve been over this already. My private life is off limits. Find something else to entertain you.”

Tony waves distractedly, his eyes not moving away from Steve’s face. “Ancient history,” he mumbles, taking a step forward and forcing Steve to crane his neck up in order to glare at Tony.

“Ancient history?” Steve repeats, incredulous. He can feel a spark of irritation light up inside him. It is a welcome change from feeling like he is back to being a skinny and sickly kid, who never merited a second glance. “That was last year.”

“And it was stupid then, and it is still stupid now.” There is a something like frustration written across Tony’s features as he regards Steve. Frustration and puzzlement. “You’re a good guy. Polite and respectful. You even have a decent sense of humor when you’re not purposely mean. Not to mention,” Tony waves in Steve’s direction, the crease on his forehead deepening, “that you look like you could star in pretty much anyone’s wet dreams. So why aren’t you out, having fun?”

Steve gives Tony a flat look even as the warmth spreads from his cheeks down to his neck. He carefully chooses not to acknowledge the direction of his thoughts at Tony’s wet dreams comment. Especially the ‘anyone’s’ part of it. “Did it not occur to you that I am not interested in starting a relationship?”

Tony huffs out an impatient noise, throwing up his hands. “Come on, Steve, work with me. I’m not talking about engagement rings and white picket fence.”

Steve sighs. There are two ways this conversation could proceed, and, despite the general consensus, Steve is not physically incapable of taking the path of less resistance.

“What are you talking about, then?”

Tony’s eyes light up in that particular way Steve’s learned to associate with fire alarms and damage control.

Spreading his hands dramatically, Tony grins. “We’re finding you a date.”

“I don’t-” Steve tries, protest dying on his lips as he watches Tony fish his cell out of his pocket, fingers flying over the screen with an admirable speed. Steve rises to his feet, alarm bells sounding off inside his head, but manages to stop himself from going over and yanking the phone out of Tony’s hand. Instead, he drags in a deep, steadying breath. “Tony, whatever it is you are doing, I’m asking you to stop.”

Tony doesn’t look away from the phone; he merely raises one finger. “Give me a second, Cap, I’m almost there.”

Something not far from anger twists low inside Steve’s belly when Tony starts muttering in a low voice, something that sounds suspiciously like a string of names. Steve moves before the thought fully forms inside his head. In two quick strides he is standing in front of Tony, fingers wrapped tightly around Tony’s wrist.

“I asked you to stop,” Steve orders. There is an edge to his voice, but Steve is not quite certain is it due to anger or dread.

Tony blinks up at Steve, confusion plain on his face. It smooths into carefully blank expression quickly, but not before Steve catches sight of something very much like hurt in Tony’s eyes. “I’m fond of my bones in one piece,” Tony says, glancing pointedly at Steve’s fingers, closed around his right wrist. “So could you ease it with the grip a bit, huh, big guy?”

Steve releases Tony’s wrist and pulls his hand away, lowering it carefully by his side, the feel of warmth lingering on Steve’s fingers.

“I asked you to stop,” Steve repeats in a softer voice. Tony lifts his chin minutely, his mouth tightening petulantly. “I’m not interested in a relationship. Or simply having fun.” Pressing his lips tighter, Steve flicks his gaze at the phone, still clutched in Tony’s hand. “And if I were, I wouldn’t look on any of online dating sites.”

Tony blinks, then looks away for a brief moment. When he meets Steve’s gaze again, it is with a sheepish smile. Steve knows that smile. Steve has learned to dread that smile. “About that…”

“Tony. _What_ did you do?”

Tony shrugs. “Broke into SHIELD’s personnel files.”

“You-” Steve starts, but the words get stuck inside his throat. He cannot even claim he is angry or disappointed, although there is a distinct feeling of helpless frustration in the pit of his belly. No, the feeling that is filling the inside of Steve’s chest is light and warm and completely lacking common sense. “Why?”

Tony gives him an impatient look. But he lowers the phone. Then, after a moment of hesitation, puts it back into his pocket. “Because I wanted you to have fun, Steve. To find someone with whom you’d have at least something in common. And since finding anyone with your life experience is impossible, it was either SHIELD or the nearest retirement home.”

Steve’s mouth twitches faintly. It is disconcerting, how much Tony could make him feel. With just a few words, Tony could evoke a myriad of emotions inside Steve’s chest: tangling and clashing together, stealing the air from his lungs and making his heart race. 

There is a name for that, Steve is aware of it. But he doesn’t want to make that final step and fully acknowledge exactly how deep Tony Stark had managed to burrow inside Steve’s heart.

Without even trying.

“I’m pretty certain breaking into SHIELD’s files is federal offense,” Steve remarks. He has to put up a considerable effort not to sound amused.

“Not my first time,” Tony replies, managing to look defiant even though he keeps fidgeting nervously, his fingers tapping a discordant beat against his thigh.

Steve squares Tony with a pointed look. “That actually doesn’t make it better, Tony.”

“It was for a good cause?”

Steve snorts. “I’m sure Fury would understand if you put it that way.” Steve watches as Tony’s mouth curves into a grin, effectively ruining Tony’s efforts at keeping up an innocent façade. Trying to suppress a smile becomes a real struggle after that for Steve. “And no, I’m not offended by your chosen phrasing. Not in the least.”

Tony just stares at Steve for a prolonged moment. His grin falters but doesn’t fade. Instead, it shifts into a smile, one of those rare real smiles Tony allows himself every once and again. 

“I only wanted to help. Seriously,” Tony says. He glances away for a moment. When he looks back again, his smile is strained and no longer reaches his eyes. “You’re regressing to that brooding, sulky version of yourself, Rogers-”

“I am not sulking.”

“- and I’m kind of fond of the newer version.”

Silence that ensues after Tony’s words is not uncomfortable, but Steve cannot help but feel there is something unspoken hanging in the air between them; charged and weighted, sending a shiver rolling down Steve’s spine. It feels almost like excitement.

“The newer version?” Steve asks. His voice comes out almost completely steady. 

“Yep,” Tony says, sliding his hands into pockets. His voice is light, conversational, and in complete contrast to the unusual solemnness of his gaze. “Less-grouchy and moderately fun version.” A shadow flickered across Tony’s features for a fleeting moment, turning his smile brittle, and tinged with something not unlike sadness. “At times, you even seemed happy.”

Steve has to swallow against the sudden dryness of his throat. “I am-” Steve begins but his voice catches on the last word, then fails.

Tony’s smile falters further, his shoulders hunching visibly. “Yeah, right. You can’t even say the word.”

Steve has to take a steadying breath, and will away the warm and bright feeling building behind his ribcage. He has no proof that Tony’s interest in Steve’s happiness is anything but platonic. No proof, just a foolish and stubborn hope. 

“I am happy,” Steve says, finally. It earns him an arch of an eyebrow and a wry twist of Tony’s lips. “I am,” Steve repeats, a touch harsher than he means too, his fingers curling into loose fists. He takes a moment to steady his breathing, keeps gaze firmly locked on Tony’s. “This life might not be what I thought my life would be like, but it is the life I’m living. I won’t waste it by holding onto something that is long gone.”

Tony’s brow furrows faintly, his gaze slowly shifting from guarded to contemplative. Steve holds it steadily. A beat passes, followed by another, and then Steve sees it: a tiny movement in the corner of Tony’s mouth that grows until it is a full-fledged smile. Steve doesn’t try to stop himself from matching it with his own.

Tony rocks forward on his feet, smile still firmly in place. “Welcome to the twenty first century, Steve.”

Steve ducks his head for a second, that bright, bubbly feeling inside his chest expanding inside his chest. He’d heard that phrase more times than he’d cared to count in those first months after “Thanks, Tony. It’s… good to be here,” Steve says. He is not a little surprised to find that he actually means it. There is a wound inside his heart - Steve thinks it will forever remain there - but it no longer festers, bleeding poison into his veins.

Tony’s smile widens, then turns into a grin. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. Steve swallows a sigh when Tony holds up his right hand, presenting his phone. “Sure you don’t want to celebrate this revelation with a hot date?”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to refuse Tony’s offer and excuse himself for the night. But the words get stuck inside his throat. Just a few moments ago, he’d said he wouldn’t waste his life, and here he is, about to do exactly that. Tony might not feel the same, but there is something in the curve of Tony’s smile and the warmth of his gaze that makes Steve think that maybe Tony _does_.

Even if Tony’s answer is ‘no’, knowing where he stands cannot be worse than wanting and wanting and _wanting_ , but holding it locked behind gritted teeth and inside aching chest.

Steve swallows thickly, straightens. His blood is rushing wildly in his ears and his heart is beating a wild rhythm against his breastbone: part excitement and part dread. It doesn’t feel that much different from being a mission: like jumping from a great height, and having faith that Tony will be there to catch him.

Maybe Tony will catch him this time, as well. If Tony doesn’t, it won’t be the first time Steve had to pick himself off of the ground, bruised and battered.

“And what if I do?” Steve asks. He manages to keep his voice steady, if a little breathless. His gaze is caught on Tony’s face. Steve isn’t certain he would be able to look away. He knows that he doesn’t want to.

Tony’s eyes go wide. For a moment, he merely stares at Steve. He doesn’t look like a man who’d gotten the answer he’d been hoping for. “You-- You do?”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. Steve intends to keep his voice strong and sure, but he doesn’t quite succeed. 

Not that Tony seems to notice the hitch in Steve’s voice or what must be a truly embarrassing expression if Steve’s face is showing even a fraction of what his foolish, hopeful mind is conjuring up. He is too busy looking everywhere but at Steve, his expression flickering from dismayed to disappointed to hurt, settling finally on blank. 

Tony smiles, strained and obviously fake, and Steve has to put in a conscious effort not to reach forward and follow the line of Tony’s mouth with the tips of his fingers, until it curves into something real. Something that belongs to Steve.

“Oh. That’s… that’s great, Cap.” Tony stammers. He is fidgeting, playing distractedly with his phone, and all Steve wants is to wrap his hands around him, burrow his face in the crook of Tony’s neck and breathe in his scent. Tony exhales deeply, his smile fading to a faint shadow as he holds up his phone once again. “So, anyone I know? Or do I-” Tony cuts himself off abruptly when Steve - bold and terrified all at once - reaches forward with both hands. 

Tony’s skin is warm underneath Steve’s fingers as they close around Tony’s wrist. He keeps his hold loose; a plea not a demand. Tony looks stunned, his mouth still open around that last, unspoken word. He blinks, the expression on his face matching the erratic pulse Steve can feel every time he brushes his thumb across the pulse point in Tony’s wrist. 

Slowly and carefully, Steve plucks the phone out of Tony’s unresisting fingers, his eyes set on Tony’s unblinkingly. He doesn’t release his hold on Tony’s wrist. He is not entirely certain his fingers will obey him if he tries.

“I’d say you know him quite well,” Steve says, steadily. He can feel his cheeks heating up, and his heart doing its damndest to beat its way out of Steve’s sternum, but neither seems especially relevant in the light of the realization dawning across Tony’s face. “Tony.”

Steve’s eyes flick down from Tony’s wide and startled, catching on the way Tony’s throat works as he swallows: once, twice. “Fuck,” Tony rasps out, finally. It isn’t something anyone would like to hear after confessing to their feelings - no matter how indirectly - but it is so _Tony_ it makes the small, hesitant smile that was contained in the corner of Steve’s mouth spread wide across his face. “Really? _Me_?”

“Yes. Really,” Steve says softly, his thumb moving in slow circles against the inside of Tony’s wrist. It is the only touch Steve is allowing himself despite the near overwhelming desire to close the small distance between himself and Tony. “You, Tony.”

Tony stares at Steve one long moment. The awe is slowly fading from his gaze, making place for something far too somber.

Tilting his head to the side, Tony studies Steve intently. “Are you sure about this? You didn’t hit your head on the last mission and forget to tell us about it?” Tony asks after a moment. His tone is light, almost teasing, but there is tension in his shoulders and jaw that wasn’t there before: as if he is bracing for impact. Or a rude awakening.

Steve feels equally tempted to shake him as he is to hug him. In the end, he settles for squeezing Tony’s wrist reassuringly.

“I’m starting to doubt you being a genius, Stark,” Steve says. “Going on a date with you? Not even a little.”

“This is a spectacularly bad idea, Steve,” Tony says. He doesn’t try to extract his hand out of Steve’s hold, though. Neither does he try to put more distance between them. “And I know a little something about bad ideas.”

Steve swallows an exasperated sigh. “Tony, I wouldn’t even be here today if I hadn’t volunteered for a highly risky experimental procedure and then crashed a plane into the Arctic Ocean. So it’s not like I don’t know anything about dumb ideas.” Releasing a deep breath, Steve fixes Tony with a steady and open gaze. Fleetingly, Steve wishes he is better with words, charming and suave like Bucky had been. But he is not. He is just plain Steve Rogers, and truth has always been his greatest strength. “I-- I like you, Tony. I like spending time with you. And I’d like to give us a chance to try and see if we could be more than friends. If that’s not something you want, I’ll never mention it again and be content to have you as a friend. But if you feel the same.” Following an impulse, Steve abandons his hold on Tony’s wrist in favor of cupping the side of his face. Tony goes very still when Steve’s thumb brushes across his cheekbone but makes no attempt to pull away. “Then say yes.” 

A moment passes in which Tony just stands there, silently staring at Steve with an expression Steve cannot read no matter how hard he tries. The hope that has been steadily growing inside Steve’s chest starts to dim, leaving place for something hollow and aching.

Steve starts to pull away his hand, apology ready on his lips, when Tony finally moves. He leans into Steve’s touch, eyes set on Steve’s and gleaming with warmth.

“Yes,” Tony says, and smiles.

***

Arranging the details of his upcoming date with Tony doesn’t proceed as smoothly as Steve had hoped it would.

Steve has an idea of an ideal night out, but he is fairly certain flowers and dancing aren’t going to impress Tony.

“You don’t need to go out of your way to try and impress Tony,” Natasha tells him when Steve finally breaks down and asks for advice. “Actually, I would advise against trying it. That is something for people who haven’t been sharing the same living space for almost three years.”

“Then what should I do?” Steve is aware there is clear note of frustration in his voice, but he cannot help himself. He’d thought getting Tony to agree to a date would be the hardest part.

“Steve, you don’t need me to tell you what clothes to wear or where to take Tony.”

Steve drags his fingers through his hair. There are two days left to their date, and the only thing Steve knows for certain is that he’ll be wearing his old leather jacket. And that had been an easy decision. He’d seen Tony appreciating that jacket on Steve more than once. To say that he is slowly edging toward full-fledged panic is somewhat an understatement. 

“Actually, I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” Steve says, only half-joking.

“You've got this, Steve. Just focus on what you want from your date with Tony. Everything else is just the matter of logistics and that is something you’re very good at.”

Steve thinks about Natasha’s words long after she leaves, and he remains alone in the gym.

He thinks of Tony, holding a bouquet of red roses, trying but failing to hide a smile behind it.

Thinks of walking side by side with Tony, their fingers entwined.

Thinks of listening to Tony as he talks about his latest project, eyes gleaming with excitement, Steve’s jacket wrapped around Tony’s shoulders.

Thinks of pressing his lips against Tony’s.

And, just like that, the answer to Natasha’s question solidifies inside Steve’s mind.

_Tony._

Steve wants Tony. Not just for one date or two or ten. Or even a hundred.

Steve wants forever.

***

Leaning against the door, Steve touches his mouth briefly. Thinks about Tony’s dazed face.

It is a dizzying feeling, the knowledge that a simple guy from Brooklyn can put that kind of an expression on Tony Stark’s face with a single kiss.

“JARVIS?” Steve asks, opening his eyes and sliding his right hand into his jeans’ pocket. He lets out a soft, relieved sigh when his fingers close around something soft and small.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can you tell me where is Tony at the moment?”

“Sir still remains in the elevator.”

Steve’s mouth quirks into a smile, his chest expanding with a bright, warm feeling. “What is he doing there?”

“He appears to be just standing.”

Steve huffs out an amused sound. He tries to picture Tony: standing still in the elevator, expression dazed and lips red from their kiss. Steve's heart flutters as the image slowly crystallizes in front of his mind's eye. It is followed by a tingling rush of thrill sliding down Steve's spine. “He doesn't need help?” Steve says, voice just a touch hoarse.

“His heart rate is above normal and his blood pressure is elevated, but I do not believe he is in need of assistance.”

“Okay then,” Steve says, lifting his right hand up to his eye level. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Captain?”

“No,” Steve says in a soft voice, rubbing a single red petal between his thumb and forefinger. “I have everything I need.”


End file.
